Category: 1954

Journey to Italy (1954)

Roberto Rossellini | 1hr 26min

The tension between middle-aged couple Alex and Katherine Joyce has been slowly eroding their patience throughout their vacation, so when they finally resolve to divorce on the final day, a forced, impromptu visit to Pompeii is the last thing they want. As we have witnessed during their wanderings in Journey to Italy, this land is simultaneously alive with geothermal activity and stagnant with the sombre air of history, and here at Mt Vesuvius’ dig site we see both collide in the discovery of two exhumed bodies – a man and a woman. “They have found death like this together,” the archaeologist reflects, and all at once Katherine is mournfully hit by the sorrowful impermanence of her own marriage.

What are we to do with the small amount of time we have been granted on Earth, Roberto Rossellini ponders in Journey to Italy, and how do we let that define our relationships? Turning away from the war-ravaged European cities that defined his previous films, the Italian neorealist shoots among the ancient ruins and villas of southern Italy, where the past is petrified in worn, ageing stonework. The visual metaphor here is strong, casting Alex and Katherine’s decaying marriage against crumbled walls and weathered pillars, while the bones of those who passed away millennia ago are preserved in an adoption program run at Fontanelle cemetery. Life is short, yet its remnants may survive the rise and fall of empires – so even after Katherine inevitably becomes dust one day, is her bitter contempt somehow destined to live forever?

A man and a woman exhumed from the ruins of Pompeii, their love immortalised in plaster.
Rossellini uses the ancient, crumbling structures of Italian history to stand in for Alex and Katherine’s withered, destitute love.
A heavy sense of mortality hangs over these characters’ journeys, morbidly represented in the cemeteries and catacombs that Katherine visits.

This trip from England to Naples makes for a powerful framing device in Journey to Italy, tearing this rocky marriage away from its routines, and forcing husband and wife to navigate unfamiliar territory together. The death of Uncle Homer has left his villa in their possession, and now as they venture far out of their comfort zone with the intent to sell it, Katherine’s sensitivity and Alex’s bluntness begin to amplify each other. “How can they believe in that? They’re like a bunch of children,” he disdainfully remarks upon encountering a religious street procession, to which she gives a simple, sentimental response.

“Children are happy.”

Majesty and authenticity in Italy’s architecture, setting this relationship breakdown against cultural and historical landmarks.

This trip is the first time they have been alone since they were married, Katherine reflects, though given the harsh visual divide Rossellini draws between them through the car windscreen, clearly their shared isolation also extends to them as individuals. From within the silence, insecurities emerge as savage barbs, and her popularity among the locals only inflames Alex’s jealousy. “It’s a long time since I’ve seen you in such a good mood,” he spitefully remarks, and soon enough they are at each other’s throats, fuelled by the ferocious strength of Rossellini and Vitaliano Brancati’s cynical screenplay.

Divisions in framing, slicing this beam in the car windscreen right down the middle of the argumentative couple.
Conflict carries through into the blocking, here splitting Alex and Katherine between background and foreground, top and bottom of the frame.

Ingrid Bergman and George Sanders are magnificent in their natural rapport, revealing years of resentment in offhand reactions and pointed jabs, and sustaining their commanding screen presences even when they briefly go their separate ways. Uninterested in the museums and historical sites that Katherine wishes to explore, Alex seeks out the company of women on the island of Capri, starting with one beautiful local. A short walk by the rugged coastline seems to be the perfect romantic setting, but when she begins to speak of her absent husband and his return that evening, Alex’s interest fades. Perhaps then the prostitute he picks up off the street corner will fulfil his longing for companionship, yet her depression and open confession of suicidal thoughts only deepen his own malaise.

Alex seeks the company of other women, yet finds only disappointment, even when he approaches a street prostitute.
Tremendous, introspective acting from Ingrid Bergman studying the faces of history with mystique and awe.

While Sanders’ performance coasts along waves of perpetual disappointment, Bergman is entranced by the mystique of Italy’s history and geography, her silent expressions reflecting a melancholy, existential awe. As a tour guide at the Naples Museum provides commentary on each exhibit, Rossellini’s camera glides across the marble faces of legendary figures, and later the Cave of Sibyl arches high over her path into the subterranean complex. “Temple of the spirit. No longer bodies, but pure, ascetic images,” her internal voiceover ponders as she wanders its rough-hewn tunnels, recalling the words of an old poet friend who passed away far too soon. Cinematographer Enzo Serafin’s gorgeous location shooting may offer her journey a raw authenticity, though this obsession with the mystical also lifts it into a spiritual realm, summoning memories of those whose spirits linger in the land of the living.

The Cave of Sibyl arches high over its visitors, transporting its visitors back in time – excellent architecture in location shooting.
Even this simple conversation between spouses is set lower down in the shot, allowing for this volcano in the distance to rise up behind them – always the threat of eruption.

The parallels to Michelangelo Antonioni’s drifting, existential dramas are evident here, reflecting the forlorn lives of privileged characters through the architecture that surrounds them. Rossellini’s blocking too is an extension of that loneliness that constantly keeps Alex and Katherine at least an arm’s length away from each other, and which finally manifests their separation as they are physically pulled apart within a frenzied crowd. Suddenly feeling the reality of their impending divorce, Alex’s usually cold demeanour dissipates. Pushing through the current, he takes her in his arms and immediately denounces his callous behaviour.

“Catherine, what’s wrong with us? Why do we torture one another?”

Alex and Katherine’s separation manifests as she is carried away by the crowd, forcing them to face the reality of their impending divorce.

Their reconciliation is moving, if a little sudden, perhaps belonging more in a classical Hollywood melodrama than a naturalistic study of marriage and death. Even if their problems aren’t so easily resolved though, this acknowledgement of love’s endurance through adversity and estrangement is a touching final grasp at that which transcends life itself. Nowhere is its value more evident than here in the land of the dead, and as Rossellini’s reflections upon his own complicated relationship with Bergman so poignantly reveal, nowhere is one’s mortality felt more deeply than in the throes of nostalgic longing.

Rossellini’s camera lifts above the crowd as lovers reconcile – a slightly contrived Hollywood-style ending, but not a major point of contention.

Journey to Italy is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Senso (1954)

Luchino Visconti | 1hr 57min

“I dislike people behaving like characters in some melodrama,” Contessa Livia Serpieri hypocritically proclaims in the opening minutes of Senso, particularly needling those “with no regard for the serious consequences of a gesture dictated by impulse or by unforgivable thoughtlessness.” Luchino Visconti does not merely underscore the irony of such a grand indictment – over the course of this film, her life becomes an opera itself, appropriately beginning with one fateful encounter at a theatrical production of Il Trovatore. There are few men in Venice more shameful for Livia to fall for than Lieutenant Franz Mahler, whose loyalty to the Austrian Empire during its occupation of Italy is directly at odds with her cousin Roberto’s nationalistic insubordination, as well as the old-fashioned aristocracy she has married into. Still, what do these taboos really amount to when that rare breed of star-crossed love is at stake?

Livia is not wrong to question the social conventions of her time, though the naivety with which she conducts her secret rebellion dooms her from the start. She falls hard and fast, turning a blind eye to Franz’s exile of Roberto and stubbornly suffering through his tactless womanising. Her lovesick stubbornness may be reminiscent of Scarlett O’Hara, but it is clear in Alida Valli’s taciturn performance that this does not come from the same place of petulance or vanity. Behind her sharp features she conceals an ardent desire to escape her dull, overprivileged lifestyle and uncover hidden passions that she never felt in her claustrophobic marriage to Count Serpieri, while the Third Italian War of Independence complements this rising tension with a similarly volatile backdrop of turmoil and violence.

Senso is a prime achievement of acting for Alida Valli, who conceals an ardent desire to escape her dull, overprivileged lifestyle behind sharp, taciturn features.
A fine arrangement of ornaments through the frame, sinking Livia into a shiny sea of blue.

On this level, the similarities to Gone with the Wind’s sweeping historical scope and beauty deepens, shrouding the film in a Technicolor opulence that arrived in 1954 as an unexpected shift for a renowned neorealist such as Visconti. Senso’s extravagant studio sets allowed him a level of control that he was never previously afforded, obstructing meticulously arranged compositions with oil lamps, drapes, and fine ornaments laid precisely around rooms of patterned wallpaper and faded frescoes. His staging of actors across the full breadth and depth of his frame makes for some magnificent cinematic paintings too, dressing the men in military uniforms that cut out sharp silhouettes and women in voluminous dresses which fill up entire doorways. The colours and textures of Visconti’s period décor may be worn with age, yet this only speaks to the miraculous survival of Italy’s cultural heritage across many centuries, and its bold perseverance against the newest threat to arrive at their doorstep.

Visconti uses frescoes to tremendous effect throughout Senso, setting his characters against faded backdrops of high art, history, and wealth.
As always, it is Visconti’s staggered blocking that astounds, delivering an array of picturesque compositions that tell their own stories.
What starts as a relatively shallow shot deepens very suddenly as Valli flies into the background, throwing open doors to create frames within frames within frames.
Visconti’s venture into Technicolor photography is a superb accomplishment, seeming to draw inspiration from painters more than filmmakers.

As visually sumptuous as these sets are, it is evidently the addition of Visconti’s magnificent location shooting among Venice’s most iconic sites which led to Senso becoming the most expensive Italian film at the time of its release. Aristocrats, soldiers, and activists fill the ornate golden stalls and balconies at La Fenice opera house where the film opens, setting the scene of civil unrest as green and red protest leaflets are scattered through the air, while outside the moonlight bounces off the Cannaregio Canal and dimly illuminates the surrounding stonework. As Livia wanders down the archaic city streets with her secret lover, her voiceover romantically ponders what she believes to be true companionship, submitting to the same melodramatic weaknesses she derided in others only a few scenes prior.

“There existed only a secret and unspoken pleasure I experienced in hearing him speak and laugh, and in hearing the echo of our footsteps in that silent city.”

Visconti shoots in La Fenice opera house, filling the ornate golden balconies with extras as leaflets patriotically stealing the colours of the Italian flag rain down from above.
Venice has rarely looked as a beautiful as it does here, its mise-en-scène filled in with painterly, historic detail.

It would be reasonable to suggest that Visconti can’t entirely shake his neorealist tendencies given his dedication to the authenticity of each setting, but by the time he is staging immense battles between Italian and Austrian forces, it is abundantly clear that his cinematic ambitions have also expanded to crafting breathtaking action and spectacle. His camera pans and crane shots may be simple in their execution, yet they are enormously effective in tracking the coordinated movement of rigorous military formations through wheat fields, while capturing the menacing accumulation of opposing forces atop a hill in the background. Visconti scenery is consistently layered with a remarkable level of detail here, letting fires burn across distant pastures while horse-drawn carriages pass right by the camera, and consequently breathing life into Italy’s epic, historic stand against their Austrian oppressors.

In place of fast cuts, Visconti lets his camera drift and pan across scenes of largescale conflict, soaking in the remarkable scenery and blocking across all layers of the frame.
Visconti uses the full depth of his shot – fires burning across hills in the background, armed forces approaching each other in the midground, and carriages passing by in the foreground.

The purpose of these imposing battle scenes in Senso is twofold – not only do they vividly paint out the visceral violence which Livia remains happily ignorant to, but they also directly embody the tragic consequences of her irresponsible actions. So besotted is she with her Austrian Lieutenant that she doesn’t see the cowardice in his antiwar monologue, and when he asks for money to bribe his way out of fighting, she impulsively decides to give him funds that Roberto intended for the Italian war effort. The results are catastrophic, leaving the Italians severely under-resourced in the Battle of Custoza, and incidentally guaranteeing their defeat.

The Battle of Custoza is a humiliating defeat for the Italians, expanding the scope of Visconti’s narrative to reveal the impact of Livia’s selfishness upon the entire nation.

For a woman who considers herself above the whims of melodrama, Livia is evidently prone to spontaneous bouts of recklessness and depression, even seeing her don a black mourning dress when she is separated from Franz. Delusions of exotic romance that exist to cover deeper insecurities can only sustain themselves for so long though, and once Franz has accomplished his goal of bribing his way out of the army, Livia’s finally come crashing down. Along with losing his social status and military rank, so too has Franz lost all dignity. Now spending his days and nights with the prostitutes of Verona, he considers himself nothing but a “drunken deserter,” and doesn’t hold back in inflicting his spiteful self-loathing upon Livia when she finally tracks him down.

The wide shots in his apartment of gold-and-crimson wallpaper are handsomely mounted, but it is Visconti’s unusual shift into close-ups which particularly astounds here, studying the mix of despair and exhaustion that unfolds across Valli’s face during her cruel humiliation. “You think the same way I do,” Franz viciously asserts when he notes her shock at his moral debasement. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have given me money to buy yourself an hour of love.”

Countless frames here could be mounted on a wall – absolutely immaculate production design with the red wallpaper, gold trimming, and fine furniture.
A shift into close-ups as Livia is forced to confront Franz’s hateful misanthropy and self-loathing, building Valli’s performance to a heart-wrenching climax.

It is a dangerous thing to shatter a woman’s heart so completely, and so it is reasonable to assume that Franz similarly recognises the seeds of self-destruction that he is sowing through such a heinous act. After all, Livia still holds proof of his treason, and what greater way for her to end this cinematic opera than with a petty act of revenge? The Austrian authorities she turns him in to see the contempt behind her actions, but there is no shame left in this emotionally ruined woman. Driven mad with anger and betrayal, she screams his name into the empty streets of Verona, poignantly mirroring Senso’s final shot of Austrian soldiers carrying Franz’s body into the darkness following his execution. Her heart may still be beating, but she has suffered an annihilation of the spirit as irrecoverable as any physical death, as Visconti sinks his historical melodrama into the depths of a grave tragedy that was fated from the start.

Driven mad with anger and betrayal, Livia disappears into the darkness of Verona, and tragedy reigns.
Formally mirroring Livia’s exit, so too does Franz disappear into the darkness, killed by her bitter revenge.

Senso is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and is available to purchase from Amazon.

La Strada (1954)

Federico Fellini | 1hr 54min

Italy’s rich tradition of commedia dell’arte is given new life in La Strada’s neorealist update, summoning the stock characters of 16th century theatre into a modern landscape of heartbreaking destitution. Sold by her desperate mother as an assistant to travelling strongman Zampanò, bright-eyed idealist Gelsomina soon finds herself tragically drawn to the sensitivity beneath his toxic abuse, as well as the far more jovial stunt performer, Il Matto – or ‘The Fool’ in English. He is our good-natured Harlequin, often pulling whimsical pranks on the boastful Zampanò who might as well stand in for commedia’s Il Capitano, while offering a gentle wisdom to those who seek his comfort.

Gelsomina is not quite the sad sack that the Pierrot clown was traditionally intended to be, and yet her place as a naïve, disenfranchised victim of society between these two men strongly binds her to that theatrical archetype. Especially when she puts on her striped shirt, baggy overcoat, and face of white makeup to serve as Zampanò’s musical assistant, she transforms entirely into a bumbling comedian not unlike Charlie Chaplin, completing the look with a very familiar bowler hat. Unlike the long-suffering Little Tramp though, there is no romance or comical reversal of fortune waiting for Gelsomina at the end of La Strada. Federico Fellini may hold affection for the clowns of Italian theatre and modern cinema, but so too is he deeply engaged with the hardship that haunted a post-war Europe, extinguishing the joy and laughter that its merry entertainers sought to revive.

Giuletta Masina is our white-faced Pierrot clown, supporting the bold and brutish strongman Zampanò with her musical accompaniment, but also bringing a playful, bumbling presence like Chaplin.

There is no doubt to be had that he is the master behind the camera here, astutely blocking his cast within a magnificent depth of field, and whisking them along stretches of dirt track between towns and roadside camps. In front of the camera however, it is Giulietta Masina as Gelsomina who commands our hearts with round, dark eyes that rival Marie Falconetti’s for the most expressive in cinema history, turning her face into an animated canvas of sincere emotion. Whether she is gazing in romantic awe at Il Matto’s fanciful highwire act or raising her brow in miserable surrender to her loneliness, Masina lives in silence, visually conveying the most nuanced of emotions that words could never capture. Even beyond Fellini’s close-ups though, her small stature, androgynous appearance, and bumbling movements reveal a naïve innocence that frequently attracts the company of children. In turn, she offers them comical entertainment, and relishes the simplicity of their playful interactions.

Poignant blocking achieved through Fellini’s depth of field, separating Gelsomina from those she holds most dear as she is forced into Zampanò’s service.
Gelsomina is a woman of few words, but her round, dark eyes are all we need to fill in the gaps – Masina would have thrived in the silent film era, but Fellini is very fortunate that he happened to marry the perfect subject for this tragedy.
Fellini’s neorealist roots bleed through Gelsomina’s broken innocence, sitting with the underlying sadness of Italy’s merry entertainers.

It is a special few people who sense the presence of something truly beautiful in this unassuming woman. The nuns who grant her and Zampanò shelter at their convent see much of their pious lifestyle in Gelsomina’s modesty, and it is clear the admiration goes both ways in the awed reverence she shows for a passing religious procession. Although Il Matto playfully comments on her “funny face” that looks “more like an artichoke” than a woman, he too possesses a powerful belief that everything in the universe carries a greater purpose, and that her humble existence is no exception.

There is a nomadic quality to Fellini’s location shooting through Italian towns and countrysides, wandering around the edges of civilisation where buildings and streets are in disrepair.

This message inspires Gelsomina with enormous passion, and yet it helplessly falls on deaf ears when she tries to bring it back to Zampanò. He is a brutishly close-minded man, content with performing the same rehearsed trick of breaking chains around his torso with little creativity or variation. It is the small details of their interactions that reveal enormous differences between the two companions, such as her desire to stay longer in one location and watch her planted seeds grow, and his subsequent decision to move onto the next destination. Anything that takes time and patience to cultivate is a frivolous endeavour in his mind, as he refuses to believe in any good greater than his own survival, pleasure, and ego. It is especially the latter which drives him to take violent revenge on Il Matto for getting all three of them fired from the circus, and which leads to the strongman accidentally killing the fool in the process.

Zampanò’s feat of breaking chains around chest is an uninspired bore. He is content repeating the same lines and performing the same act for years on end, unable to see any grander purpose to life beyond making a living.
In contrast, Il Matto’s act is playful and genuinely thrilling, carrying an upbeat zest for life that attracts Gelsomina and repels Zampanò.

True to his neorealist roots as a writer for Roberto Rossellini, Fellini wields his tragedy with a deft hand here, destroying this narrative’s icon of hope much like the cold murder of a pregnant Anna Magnani in Rome, Open City. It is at this moment with Il Matto’s demise that we see something irreparably break inside Gelsomina. “The fool is hurt,” she catatonically repeats, consumed by a maddening cloud of grief that keeps her from performing in Zampanò’s travelling act. Just as her sister who previously served the strongman died while on the road with him, so too is Gelsomina destroyed by his brutality, establishing a pattern of suffering among those women who cycle in and out of his life.

As snow settles on the barren roadside where Zampanò sets up camp with Gelsomina for the last time, he makes up his mind. She is little more than a liability in her current state, no longer of any use to him. While other neorealists were using grand European cities as illustrations of their characters psyches, Fellini’s location shooting in Italy’s countryside simply offers Gelsomina’s abandonment a harsh backdrop of frozen alps and a few crumbling stone walls as she mournfully fades away into the distance.

Excellent location shooting on Italian farms and against its frozen alps, isolating Gelsomina from the company of children and lovers who bring joy to her life.

Still, there is a trace of her spirit that lives on in the wind. A simple musical leitmotif reworked from Antonín Dvořák’s orchestral ‘Serenade for Strings’ resonates a nostalgic longing for brighter days, and becomes an evocative piece of La Strada’s broader form. The refrain carries mystical significance for Gelsomina, fatefully luring her to Il Matto when she first hears it on his violin, and becoming a symbol of their connection as he teaches her how to play it on the trumpet. Even strangers who may be sensitively attuned to delicate artistic expressions finds themselves inexplicably moved by her lonely brass melody, subconsciously realising that they are witnessing the distillation of her soul into music, and soon even Nino Rota starts weaving it into his orchestral score.

A sad, evocative refrain passes between characters and instruments, but most distinctly represents Gelsomina’s nostalgic longing for brighter days, carrying on long after her death.

Though Gelsomina may have never realised this in life, her motif is the mark she has left on the world, infectiously passing between characters and instruments long after her death. At least Zampanò is still around many years later to hear it sung by a woman hanging up washing in her yard. From her, he learns that Gelsomina survived his abandonment, but was entirely mute by the time this family took her in. Instead, she let this sweet melodic passage become her voice, imparting it as her final gift before passing away.

After all this time, Gelsomina’s undying tune finally touches Zampanò as well, forcing a gutting recognition of the divine innocence he has corrupted. As he drunkenly stumbles through the seaside town, Fellini formally returns to the beach for a third time in La Strada, calling back to their meeting in the film’s very first scene, and another brief stopover where she longingly dreamed of home. He wades through the shallow water, emotionally and spiritually lost, and yet echoes of Gelsomina surround him wherever he goes. Her legacy may not change the course of history, but one cannot help recalling Il Matto’s earlier words of comfort, considering the great purpose that lies within an apparently unremarkable pebble. Even after the worst of La Strada’s tragedies, life persists in the memory of those who are gone – weighing heavily on those who bear their guilty burden, and inspiring those who see the miracle of their mere existence.

A melancholy final scene leaves Zampanò with his own guilt back where he started on a beach, this time facing his mistakes and flaws through the memory of Gelsomina, and tragically unable to break free from their constraints.

La Strada is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and you can purchase the Blu-ray on Amazon.

Aar Paar (1954)

Guru Dutt | 2hr 14min

With India’s newfound independence in 1947 came a boom in the nation’s creative industries, and Guru Dutt was right there at the forefront leading the Golden age of Hindi cinema. Though he made films before, it was Aar Paar in 1954 which effectively became his first blockbuster, capturing the attention of Indian moviegoers for its energetic Bollywood soundtrack and sumptuous stylings. There are no shimmering colours or extravagant budget to play with here, and yet Dutt is nevertheless resourceful in his spectacle, spinning off a simple love triangle into a thrilling crime plot, a rags-to-riches melodrama, and a spirited comedy.

Kalu is the charismatic rascal who Dutt casts himself as, coming out of prison with aspirations to make money and gain respect. He was previously convicted of causing a collision while speeding in his taxi, which now makes it difficult for him to get work again in his old profession. A brief stint at the local mechanic ends abruptly when he is caught flirting with the boss’ daughter, Nikki, leaving him to apply for work with the mysterious Captain – a gangster who will grant him work again as a taxi driver, though with a few shady caveats. The nightclub he operates out of also employs a young dancer who similarly catches Kalu’s eye, and who seems to keep running into him whether by chance or fate. Between each of these relationships, Dutt throws out comedic one-liners with ease, constantly charming his way into new circles and romances on his way up the social ladder.

Dutt is a great director, but he also proves himself a talented actor in the pure charm that he exudes onscreen.

Behind the camera, he is even more lively. Through staircases, prison bars, tree branches, and virtually anything that crosses his camera’s path, he purposefully obstructs his shots, keeping us at a slight distance to generate both suspense and tantalising romance. His pairing of the camera’s deep focus with a production design as sumptuously cluttered as a Josef von Sternberg film shows the hand of a genuine artist at work, understanding the potential of a magnificent set piece when used at the right time.

Dutt obstructs the frame like Josef von Sternberg, finding these inventive angles through which he frames his characters.

The Captain’s nightclub of grand circular arches and ornate wooden bannisters stands out as the finest of them all, surrounding the Dancer with extraordinary decadence as she takes the spotlight for her first solo number ‘Babuji Dheere Chalna’. Patrons sit at tables adorned with fringed lampshades, while cigarettes wafts of smoke from their cigarettes fill the air with a light haze. Through such a glorious display of mise-en-scène, the bewitching atmosphere is set for the Dancer’s indirect seduction of Kalu, offering a warning of the danger that awaits him should he choose her over Nikki.

“Mister, watch your step on the path of love, this path is full of treachery.”

The nightclub where the Dancer works is Dutt’s most beautifully designed set piece with its circular archways, splendid decor, and patterned wallpaper.

Among the most dominant aesthetic choices of the film though are the frames Dutt elegantly forms out of cars, angling his camera through windows as Kalu playfully pursues Nikki in the mechanic shop during the number ‘Sun Sun, Sun Sun Zalima, Pyar Humko Tumse Ho Gaya’, and later as he takes back up taxi driving again. His eye for visual composition is impeccable, using these shots to bind the two lovers together in their respective professions, and often panning his camera between them in breezy movements.

Dutt uses the frames of car windows all through the film, leading to some marvellously creative compositions.

Of course then, it is only natural that Dutt should lead his film towards a climactic car chase, where Kalu is in his element. Though the Captain initially intends to kill him for refusing to be the mob’s getaway driver, the Dancer offers an alternative – kidnap Nikki, and blackmail him into the job. Dutt’s editing through this bank robbery sequence is as tight and suspenseful as any American gangster movie, and Kalu’s decision to speed off halfway through and rescue his girlfriend is exactly the behaviour of a roguish action hero dedicated to setting things right.

The crime subplot of Aar Paar is well-integrated in Kalu’s rise up the social ladder, serving him for a time and eventually turning against him. Even here, he keeps using these frame obstructions to build suspense.

More than anything else, it is these choices which define the characters of Aar Paar. The title itself roughly translates to ‘This or That’, tearing Kalu between a pair of women, Nikki between her family and her lover, and the Dancer between her loyalties. At the same time, it is also this power of will which guides Kalu’s personal ambitions, allowing him to escape the shame of his past and become an honourable man. It is to this end that Dutt skilfully blends genres with high spirits and exquisite artistry, crafting a sublime musical spectacle that set a standard of Bollywood filmmaking for decades to come.

Aar Paar is not currently streaming in Australia.

Track of the Cat (1954)

William A. Wellman | 1hr 42min

Within the stark, black-and-white design of William A. Wellman’s snowy Western drama, vibrant colours are scarce to be found. The most striking of all is that blazing red coat which hangs on the wall of Curt Bridges’ bedroom, and the moment he puts it on, he automatically becomes the centrepiece of every scene. He is the second eldest of four siblings, and between his kind older brother Arthur, his weak-willed young brother Harold, and his spinster sister Grace, he is by far the most insolent of the lot. Perhaps the ruthlessness with which he tears into others shouldn’t be a surprise given their mother’s similarly mean streak, though hers derives more from her bible-thumping conservatism, while their drunk father wanders aimlessly through scenes detached from his surroundings.

All across the widescreen canvas of Wellman’s CinemaScope, he stages a textured web of strained family dynamics with incredible attention to detail. Just outside these claustrophobic confines though in the surrounding frozen mountains, they are haunted by the threat of a dangerous wild panther. As it lures the sons of the Bridges clan away from home and confronts them with a raw power mightier than they expect, layers of metaphors begin to emerge from its mystical presence.

Black-and-white interiors and landscapes, mirroring a common sterility. It is Robert Mitchum’s aggressive red coat which is often the brightest burst of colour.

Ranch hand Joe Sam carries his own superstitions around the creature, stemming from his Native American culture which views them as evil omens. Even the apprehension of its proximity is a deadly force too apparently – when Curt flees in terror and meets his downfall, Joe Sam identifies the source of his fear as coming from “In him.” The tension this panther generates is something which these masculine egos are simple not equipped to handle. In a stroke of inspired genius 21 years before Jaws would do the same, Wellman resists the urge to show us the animal, building greater suspense from its unseen presence than its physical form, and transforming it into an intangible embodiment of man’s inner darkness.

The hunt that Curt and Arthur embark on to put an end to this panther’s reign of terror separates them from the rest of the family early in Track of the Cat, and from there Wellman sets in a motion a pair of parallel narratives. Both are bound by the same monochrome palette, which is as fastidiously woven into the homestead’s dreary décor as it is the silhouetted trees and snowy mountains of Northern California’s alpine landscapes. Wellman himself stated that by effectively shooting a black-and-white film in colour, he was opening up the possibility to emphasise the sparse yet vivid hues which burst through the mise-en-scène. Here, he lets them manifest as an orange campfire, a box of blue matches, and of course that aforementioned crimson jacket.

Depth of field in Wellman’s blocking. This thorough commitment to building out the complex family dynamics through the dynamic visuals marks Track of the Cat as a major cinematic achievement for him.

Much like the panther, that piece of clothing becomes a masculine metaphor of a different kind, representing the virility that Curt obnoxiously wears everywhere he goes. Only when he sends it home with Arthur’s dead body does he give it up, exchanging it for his brother’s cow hide coat. Now assuming the appearance of the prey rather than the predator, his stature is greatly diminished, and we start to see this freezing mountain range absorb him into its icy caves and crevices.

With both elder brothers missing from home, an unfamiliar power vacuum opens in the Bridges family. The opportunity is right there for Harold to take charge and unify his family as its patriarch, and yet leadership does not come naturally to him. While he sat and waited over the years for Curt to offer him his share of the ranch, Curt waited for him to speak up and ask for it himself. When the judgemental Ma expresses her disdain for his sweetheart Gwen, he cannot summon the courage to mount a defence in her honour. His only real supporters here are Arthur, who is swiftly killed off by the panther by the end of the film’s first act, and Grace, who is effectively powerless yet wishes him a life better than her own.

Frames and blocking in Wellman’s photography, binding them within the bare walls of the stables and home.

Nothing can grow in the oppressive sterility of this colourless home, bound by bare weatherboard walls and unembellished furniture. Still, there is an austere, ravishing beauty to the way Wellman captures such drabness. He had previously proven his skilled hand at blocking ensembles in The Ox-Bow Incident, and yet there is an even clearer delineation between characters here as they stand upon narrow staircases, and are divided between the dark beams of the horse stables.

The stable is a highlight of Wellman’s mise-en-scène, using the beams and barriers to split up the family at their weakest.
Pa becomes a static feature of the mise-en-scène here, slumped across the kitchen table and disengaged from the conversation in the background.

The role his deep focus lens has to play in all of this certainly can’t be understated either, crafting some superb compositions that track multiple relationships at once across several layers of the frame, and even into neighbouring rooms. While conversations unfold in the kitchen, a drunken Pa slumps across the table in front of them all. As family members stand above an open grave, Wellman plants his camera right inside it at a low angle, catching each of them staggered into the background. Most impressive of all is the dark wooden bedframe that Arthur’s corpse lays on when he is brought back home, and which Ma feebly slouches behind in devastating grief, visually overcome by its giant, depressive mass.

Just one shot of many emphasising the sheer size of the bed that Arthur’s cold body rests upon, towering over Ma like large, depressive mass.
Wellman hangs on this shot for a few minutes looking up from Arthur’s open grave, rearranging the family into different formations.

It is no wonder that within this cast, those playing the thorniest characters are the ones who stand out the most. Beulah Bondi manages to draw a deep empathy out of the hypercritical Ma upon the death of her firstborn son, while Robert Mitchum steals virtually every scene as Curt, offering a brooding arrogance that corrupts everything around him. “This house is rotten with the gods you’ve made. Yours and Curt’s. With pride and money and greed,” Grace spits at her mother, defending those who have suffered under her. If Ma has been slowly draining this household of passion and love, then Curt has been thriving off the resulting misery and poured it into his ostentatious cruelty.

Track of the Cat is easily one of the more underrated Hollywood films of the era, and a very underrated performance from Mitchum. His character is far from likeable – an involving portrait of ego, colonialism, and western masculinity.

With characters as complex and quarrelsome as these, and a setting so vividly connected to its immediate family drama, it is no surprise that Track of the Cat is drawn from the work of American novelist Walter Van Tilburg Clark. Wellman seems to have a particular affinity for his literature, given that Clark similarly provided the source material for The Oxbow Incident. More specifically though, there is a shared interest between author and director in the psychological subtext of the western genre, rendered in Track of the Cat as an unassumingly spiritual consideration of colonial masculinity. The darkness that lurks in hearts of these emotionally inept men cannot be overcome by those trying to dominate their environment, but by the courage of those looking to break the harmful cycles of their own imprisonment. As the towering flames of a bonfire break up the stark, white landscape of Wellman’s very final shot too following this sweet victory, there may be no greater assurance that brighter days lie in the Bridges family’s future.

A formally fitting final shot, breaking up the white of the snowy landscape with the bright bonfire in the distance.

Track of the Cat is currently available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

A Lesson in Love (1954)

Ingmar Bergman | 1hr 36min

For a director so often associated with existential dramas of overcast skies and sombre expressions, Ingmar Bergman had no qualms indulging his lighter, more playful side in A Lesson in Love. His previous film, Sawdust and Tinsel, was a financial failure, and so Swedish producers approached him with the challenge of creating something with broader appeal to mainstream audiences, like those romantic comedies which Americans seemed to adore. The resulting screenplay came together in two weeks, serving as a frivolous experiment which he carried out “just for fun – and money.”

Still, A Lesson in Love is inseparable from the rest of Bergman’s oeuvre. The presence of wry humour does not detract from the marital drama at play, following in the lineage of his previous films like Thirst and To Joy, and driving the wedge of infidelity between middle-aged spouses. Gunnar Björnstrand is David, the unfaithful gynaecologist seeking out fresh experiences with young mistresses, and Eva Dahlbeck is his wife Marianne, who left old flame Carl-Adam at the altar for her current husband. Now in the present day, she is travelling to Copenhagan to right those wrongs, and finally marry her ex-fiancé – with the only problem being that David is on that train too.

As is typical of Bergman, flashbacks ensue, though these windows into the past look much more like sketches from Preston Sturges or Ernst Lubitsch comedies than subdued reflections. We learn Marianne was already getting cold feet on her wedding day before best man David came into the picture, as he finds her tying a noose and fully ready to suicide. A tug on the rope brings the entire ceiling down around her, and while the dust settles around her confession of love, her uncontrollable sneezing sends the romantic moment crashing into idiosyncratic foibles.

In the modern day, these old nostalgic fantasies have faded. “The conjugal bed is love’s demise,” David humorously surmises when his mistress considers returning to her own husband, proving Bergman’s own versatility as a writer to draw from his well of philosophical musings and construct succinctly witty lines. The integration of comedy and drama in A Lesson in Love is unfortunately not always so smooth as this, especially given that his narrative tends to alternate unevenly between both. This is more of an issue with the formal cohesion of the piece than individual moments though, as Bergman still often uses his blocking to build out the conflict of his characters, whether by laying their heads next to each other in opposing directions or trapping them together in their claustrophobic train compartment.

The great paradox of David and Marianne’s relationship is just how little these lovers with wandering eyes are actually interested in anyone else. David does not give much regard to his mistress, and now as Marianne approaches Carl-Adam for the second time with the intent of marriage, she once again finds herself falling back in David’s arms, not unlike her wedding day sixteen years ago.

Ironically, it is Carl-Adam’s own doing which motivates this, leading his old friend into a kiss with a stranger which incites Marianne’s violent jealousy. Their feud spills out into the streets of Copenhagen, though Bergman keeps his distance from them in a long shot covering the breadth of a vast river, panning his camera with them as they furiously shout and pace back and forth. Old habits die hard apparently – there is far more vigour in this relationship than anywhere else, ending A Lesson in Love on a quaint, slightly rushed note of their sudden reconciliation. For a relatively minor Bergman film, this is an impressive display of comic versatility, playing to the sort of gags one might have found in Classical Hollywood. Even then though, one should never discount the pure savagery and heartbreak that he brings to such a vividly troubled marriage of chilly, resentful lovers.

A Lesson in Love is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and is available to rent or buy on iTunes.

A Star is Born (1954)

George Cukor | 3hr 2min

There is something universally compelling in the archetypal narrative of A Star is Born which begs to be updated every few decades, rewritten and recast with celebrities who typify the dominant culture of the era. With such a clean balance of light romance and dark tragedy moving in conflicting directions, it may be the closest thing Hollywood has to a modern fairy tale, firmly rooted in classical storytelling conventions yet inseparable from America’s modern entertainment industry. That George Cukor’s 1954 adaptation may be the most triumphantly successful version does not just speak to his own talents as a director, boldly building the fable out into a drama epic pushing nearly three hours and capturing it all on vibrant, widescreen CinemaScope. The immense emotional weight contained in Judy Garland’s performance is also largely responsible for guiding this story along its inverse trajectories, sending the career of Esther Blodgett to soaring highs while her personal life and relationship with Norman Maine plunges to soul-shattering lows.

George Cukor working where he did much of his best filmmaking – in a large-scale, Technicolor musical, making splendid use of the widescreen format.

The pattern of Norman’s drunken behaviour impeding on Esther’s public life is there right from the start, as he clumsily tramples over her performance at the Hollywood function where they meet. With some quick thinking and slick improvisation, she effectively turns his interruption into a charming publicity stunt, leading him by the hand into a dance. At this point in time, the troubles that this embarrassing sort of conduct will cause down the road are not entirely clear yet. For now, both are intrigued by the other, feeding an affectionate curiosity which eventually develops into full, besotted love. While Norman surreptitiously pulls strings with producers behind the scenes to draw attention to this great talent he has discovered, Esther wrestles with the beauty standards and rigid systems of an industry that makes over her appearance and forces a new, more attractive name upon her – Vicki Lester.

Fifteen years removed from her iconic performance in The Wizard of Oz, Garland approaches Vicki with more mature sensitivities, seeking to understand the tender discomfort of an actress whose job is to cover up that pain with acts of dazzling spectacle. This is never demonstrated so sharply as it is in her upbeat tap number ‘Lose That Long Face’, taking place on a monochrome movie set which highlights her at the centre bearing strong resemblance to her daughter, Liza Minnelli, with short black hair and an eye-catching red coat. Between takes of this song that preaches unwavering optimism, Vicki breaks down beneath the weight of all her personal troubles, uninhibited by rolling cameras or domineering directors, and yet the moment she is back on set again a mere few minutes later, the shift in her disposition is jarring. Quite ironically, Garland loses that long face in an instant, and replaces it with the smile that audiences pay money to see.

‘Lose That Long Face’ sets up the devastating contrast between Vicki’s joyful screen persona and her troubled personal life, letting her vividly stand out in her red coat on this otherwise monochrome set.

This formal contrast between the two sides of Vicki’s life is one that Cukor delicately extends all through A Star is Born, as it is only in the adoration he holds for Vicki at her most playful and passionate that her pain lands with real impact. Following her run-in with Norman onstage, the two meet again by chance in an after-hours club where she soulfully sings ‘The Man That Got Away’, soulfully pining for a lost love. Her dark blue dress cuts out a bold imprint against the bar’s soothing red background, but just as stylistically affecting is the way Cukor illuminates her face with an attractive, soft light and lets his camera follow her around this space in an unbroken take, totally under the spell of her magnetic presence.

Norman’s discovery of Vicki in this dimly lit, red bar is a stunning scene, softly illuminating her face while those around her sink into darkness.

Cukor’s production design and cinematography takes yet another leap up right before intermission as we watch Vicki’s breakout movie, where she dresses in a tuxedo and stands on a stage of lush red curtains and flowers, recounting her childhood and entry into the industry. As ‘Born in a Trunk’ and ‘Swanee’ burst to life in a Vincente Minnelli-style interlude, we disappear into expressive, imaginary realms, and not one to pass up an opportunity to indulge in his magnificent cinematic panache, Cukor defines them with striking, geometric sets, totally separating this artificial dream from reality.

The red flowers and curtains of ‘Born in a Trunk’ takes a turn into Vincente Minnelli territory with an imagery musical interlude, and Cukor doesn’t waste the opportunity to splash an exceptionally gorgeous visual style up onscreen.

Even outside the big musical numbers, Cukor brings a polished slickness to his mise-en-scène, absorbing Vicki into a world of ravishing opulence while Norman finds himself on the way out. At the exact moment she decides she is going to stay behind in Los Angeles and accept his offer of a screen test, a gorgeous sunrise manifests behind her in clear reference to the film title, illuminating her in a woozy, lovesick light. Later as we transition to the fateful Oscars ceremony, Cukor’s long dissolve-heavy montage dazzles us with the red carpet’s glitz and glamour, setting a stylish stage for her greatest victory and Norman’s most shameful humiliation, thereby cementing their ultimate fates.

“Those big, fat lush days when a star could get drunk and disappear and hold up production for two weeks are over.”

Glitz and glamour in this montage of long dissolves bringing us into the Oscars.
Strong storytelling in this visual choice, washing Norman in the waves of the ocean preceding his suicide.

In the couple’s attractive Malibu beach house, the reflection of the ocean in its giant glass walls wash over Norman as he wallows in disgrace and embarrassment, realising the sacrifices Vicki is prepared to make to her own career for his rehabilitation. Once again, the sun marks a milestone in their trajectories, though where it previously rose in the early morning with Vicki’s hopeful prospects, it now sets over the horizon, shedding a warm orange glow over Norman’s silhouette as he walks into the ocean.

A rising and setting sun at either end of these characters’ journeys, symbolically manifesting the title of the film with extraordinarily handsome lighting.

Not that his tragic suicide really solves any problems for his wife at all. This is not the start of a new career for her, but rather the end of any chance at the happiness she dreamed of, trapping her in an unresolved sort of misery known only to those who aren’t given the time or space to properly grieve. Even at Norman’s funeral, she is cruelly mobbed by a crowd of zealous reporters and fans, pulling the black veil from her head to expose her vulnerability to the world. Just as fading celebrities are cruelly discarded in show business, neither is there any dignity for those successful stars like Vicki who are ripped from their old identities and consumed by new ones, pushing them to keep up the act of perfect contentment. This is an industry of happy lies, not painful realities, but it is in its pointed balance of both that Cukor’s take on A Star is Born stirringly paints out the life cycle of those talented individuals we happily turn into beautiful, disposable commodities.

Darkness takes over Cukor’s mise-en-scène in the final minutes – Vicki will forever be tied to this tragedy.

A Star is Born is currently available to rent or buy on iTunes and Amazon Video.

Magnificent Obsession (1954)

Douglas Sirk | 1hr 48min

The melodrama of Magnificent Obsession is set in motion by a stroke of bad fortune. The moment that reckless playboy Bob Merrick loses control of his speedboat, badly injures himself, and uses up the nearest resuscitator, his neighbour Dr Phillips suffers a heart attack and, without access to the device, dies. The tragedy worsens when the doctor’s wife, Helen, is blinded in a car accident, indirectly caused by Merrick’s attempt to apologise. Though he feels guilty, it is evident that his priority is to merely clear his conscience rather than to make real restitution. Ironically, it is the philosophy of the late Dr Phillips which sparks a change of heart within him, inspiring him to spread generosity and good will without expectation of repayment. From there, Douglas Sirk leads Merrick down a path of moral rehabilitation and redemption, transforming him into the very man whose death he is at least partially responsible for.

Though Sirk was not yet at his full powers in 1954, still being a year away from his breakthrough, All That Heaven Allows, he nevertheless paves the way in Magnificent Obsession for the beautifully luscious displays of mise-en-scene and sensitive characterisations he would become known for. He isn’t afraid of sentimentality, but this is no barrier to his acute social critiques of class privilege. In fact, it is exactly because of Sirk’s great empathy that he can so skilfully identify Merrick’s weaknesses, understanding his ego not as a fatal flaw, but rather a fault upon which he can improve.

The depth of field in Sirk’s compositions is excellent. There is always a sense of vulnerability and isolation simply in how these characters are blocked.

Over time as Merrick cares for Helen, his pity for her disability gradually evolves into an authentic love, though one hindered by his decision to conceal his identity from her, still holding onto a bit of shame. It is a love which motivates him to study medicine, carrying the hope that he might one day cure her blindness. Even when all seems lost in their relationship though, we can see the legitimacy in his new lease on life. He continues striving to become a doctor not to win her heart, but out of a genuine desire to help others.

Florals frequent Sirk’s mise-en-scène, lending splashes of colour to his foregrounds and backgrounds.

It is in Sirk’s delicate staging of these character interactions within elegant domestic settings where this drama lands with great emotional power, using mirrors to layer actors across the frame and obstructing compositions with plants hanging in the foreground. When both Helen and Merrick both reach their lowest points, their faces are almost entirely concealed behind lace curtains, and Sirk makes the rare move to dim his usually-soft lighting to starkly illuminate only half of their faces, or else only the edge of their profiles. In representing the affluent status of these characters on this visual level, he also lets it impose upon their presences, complicating their search for emotional truth by crowding it out with so much material wealth.

This scene is unusually dark for a Sirk film, visually speaking, with his expressionistic influences emerging in the low-key lighting.
Wide shots revealing a great distance between his characters, though even in the emptiness there is still great detail to his decor and lighting.
Lace curtains concealing Sirk’s actors, imposing upon their presences.

For this Sirkian melodrama though it is all about tonal balance, as immediately following this dark scene, Helen and Merrick open up about their romantic feelings for each other and go out on a date. As they sit and absorb their surroundings, he describes to her in detail the things he can see which she cannot – the blazing bonfire, the bursting fireworks, the communal folk dancing. Given the way he caters for her disability, it is evident that the relationship which emerges between them is not a direct copy of what she had with her late husband, and yet the parallels between the two are nonetheless apparent. Merrick’s moral reformation is made even more potent by the fact that Dr Phillip is only spoken of and never seen in person, turning him into an intangible ideal for the young playboy to aspire to, or perhaps an empty space for him to fill. Privilege may be a corrupting force in Magnificent Obsession, but any instance where pure goodness wins out over ego and insensitivity is infinitely precious to a soft-hearted empath like Sirk.

Tender affection in a simple composition, Merrick and Helen’s silhouettes kissing above a bouquet of flowers.

Magnificent Obsession is currently available to stream on The Criterion Channel.

Johnny Guitar (1954)

Nicholas Ray | 1hr 50min

It is a rare sight to see a woman take the lead in a classical Western, and perhaps entirely unique to Johnny Guitar to see her set against another woman as the equally compelling villain. Don’t be misled by the title – the string-strumming outsider and his distaste for guns is only secondary to this bitter conflict between saloonkeeper Vienna and cattle baron Emma, simmering with a vile tension that is ready to boil over into violence at any moment.

The reason for such loathing on Emma’s behalf though is masked behind layers of excuses. There is Vienna’s support of the railroad that will soon run through her land, bringing sheepman to town. There is her unpopular decision to permit a group of rambunctious confederates to frequent her saloon. There is the false suspicion that she is behind the stagecoach robbery that recently killed Emma’s brother. Emma cares little for any of these quarrels, but they certainly at least prove to be useful in riling up the local cattlemen. Instead, it is her unrequited love for the Dancing Kid, Vienna’s old flame, which underlies her hateful rage.

It is Ray’s blocking of actors across layers of so many fantastic compositions that marks Johnny Guitar as his greatest cinematic achievement.

Similarly, the job that Hayden Sterling’s titular guitarist has been summoned to town for is also one layered with separate intentions. On the surface, Vienna has hired Johnny to play music for her saloon. Prodding a little deeper, he reveals himself to be a quick draw with a gun that she realises will be handy when trouble inevitably arises with the locals. On a base, psychological level though, her reasoning is simple – there is still some unresolved feelings lingering between the two from a past relationship. Nicholas Ray’s development of such multifaceted characters gives way to profoundly gripping drama in Johnny Guitar, delivering pulsating dialogue as rhythmic and loaded with subtext as anything one would find in a film noir.

“How many men have you forgotten?”

“As many women as you’ve remembered.”

It isn’t that Ray’s narrative moves slowly, but the time he takes to flesh out these character interactions in both his screenplay and staging certainly takes up larger portions of the film than most other Westerns of this ilk. Johnny arrives at the saloon in the first few minutes of the film, and it isn’t until almost forty minutes that we leave this location for another, but this magnificent, rustic set proves to be all Ray needs to set up his drama. One wall takes the appearance of a rocky cliff face, as if the saloon has been built into the side of a mountain, and with a balcony setting a stage for interactions across uneven levels, romances and rivalries are blocked with stunning visual flair. From low angles, Vienna stands tall upon the balcony like a queen in her domain, while high angles from this vantage point shrink Emma below, whose lack of physical power is offset by the large mass of ranchers standing right behind her.

High and low angles in mid-shots and wides, setting up these two rivals as polar opposites.

Joan Crawford and Mercedes McCambridge are opposites in these roles, yet both deliver an equally remarkable pair of performances as enemies. McCambridge’s eyes are as small and mean as Crawford’s are large and expressive, and where the former predominantly dresses in drab, black dresses to put on a show of mourning, the latter is instantly recognisable for her array of bright, colourful costumes. Ray’s striking Technicolor serves these outfits well, setting Vienna apart as a woman fully embracing the full range of sartorial expression, as opposed to more traditional gunslingers like Johnny whose muted greys and browns blend into his earthy surroundings.

A remarkable composition illustrating the separation between the old lovers. Kitchen utensils hanging in the foreground, Johnny a little further back, Vienna isolated in the window frame wearing her gorgeous purple dress. As the conversation goes on, she emerges around the corner and romantic tension grows.
A bright red shirt – Vienna is out for vengeance, and Ray throws shadows across these scene as they plan their next move.
Several scenes are spent watching Vienna change outfits, but the blocking never falters.

As Johnny Guitar progresses, Vienna’s regalia grows even more vibrant with the intensifying conflict. The navy blue she starts off with is perhaps the subtlest we will see her dress in the entire film, and yet it still projects a mannered demeanour while she is most in control. When her mind later turns to vengeance, she changes into a burning red shirt, and then as she goes to confront her adversary one last time, her iconic canary yellow top finally makes an appearance, setting herself up as a vibrant source of hope – though not without keeping the angry touch of scarlet in her scarf.

A pale white figure accepting her fate, calmly playing the piano as Emma and the lynch mob arrive.

Sheila O’Brien’s costume design makes for a particularly striking composition when Emma and her lynch mob arrive at the saloon to confront Vienna a second time, only to find her peacefully playing piano in a flowing, white gown against the rocky brown wall. There is a calm acceptance here which, while confident, also makes her terribly vulnerable. Ray is sure to keep emphasising the massive oil-lamp chandelier that Vienna lit at the start of this scene here, especially capturing it from low angles, hanging over Emma’s head in a daunting piece of foreshadowing. Sure enough, she sends it crashing down to the floor only minutes later, burning down the saloon in a devastating set piece. In her mad smile and dour black outfit, one might call to mind the image of the Wicked Witch of the West, and with the orchestra playing up and down a delirious scale reminiscent of The Wizard of Oz’s tornado sequence the comparison is even plainer.

In every shot this oil lamp chandelier appears, Ray uses it to craft an excellent composition and set up its eventual relevance to the narrative.
Foreshadowing in this tremendous low angle and blocking.
Emma’s gun shot, dropping the oil lamps to the floor and setting fire to the saloon.
Ray knows what he has with this set piece, frequently cutting back to the burning facade.

The climactic showdown that ends Johnny Guitar does not try to top this in scale, but it does pay off on its character drama to an even greater extent, subverting our expectations that Johnny will be the one to save the day by letting Vienna land the killing blow on her foe. It is not his physical strength or skill with a gun which sways the course of events, but rather his moral fortitude, winning her over to his pacifist, musical lifestyle. Though the two lovers happily unite in these closing minutes, there is still something tragic about the way this male-dominated environment drives a wedge between two headstrong women, setting them up in bitter competition against each other as if there were only room for one. The most obvious feminist reading of Johnny Guitar is right there on the surface for anyone to grasp, but it is just as much in the sympathy that is offered to the mean-spirited Emma that the film reveals its deepest compassions, projecting a feminine sensitivity upon the Western genre through its marvellously complex characters and vibrant visual expressions.

The geography of Ray’s blocking. Vienna in the top left, Emma in the top right, Johnny in the bottom left, the Dancing Kid in the bottom right. Everything is set up visually in this wide shot for the final showdown.
A high angle sending Johnny and Vienna on their way, walking through a crowd of black-clad men.

Johnny Guitar is currently available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, Google Play, and Amazon Prime Video.

Sabrina (1954)

Billy Wilder | 1hr 53min

Sabrina may not have the reputation of Breakfast at Tiffany’s or Roman Holiday, and yet there is a good argument that Billy Wilder’s first collaboration with Audrey Hepburn features the actress at her most nuanced. Here, she combines two roles she would be commonly associated with – the fresh-faced innocent and the stylish fashion icon – and grows up before our eyes in a gorgeous transformation, confidently inhabiting a new look which turns heads that previously went unturned. Even before this takes place though, Hepburn is a screen presence to behold, with Wilder soaking her face through close-ups as she watches a young William Holden from afar. Though Sabrina carries great loneliness she is still evidently immature, as an ill-thought-out suicide attempt over her unrequited puppy love reveals a naïve belief that there is nothing else out there in the world for her.

Audrey Hepburn can play childlike innocence as well as the stylish leading lady.

The two years she spends in Paris changes that quite drastically though. To David, her then-crush and now-suitor, she is an entirely new woman, bearing no resemblance to the one who left. To her father, she is still the young girl with no wider understanding of the world. To her, the truth is more complicated. She is still carrying insecurities that haunted her before, as we are reminded in the instrumental motifs of ‘Isn’t it Romantic’ recalling that night she had her heart broken while watching David flirt with another woman. But now she has lived and experienced more, and she finally sees her own great potential.

“You’re still reaching for the moon.”

“No, Father. The moon is reaching for me.”

Elegant staging across layers of the frame painting out these characters and relationships.

Up against Hepburn, Holden is struggling in what is easily one of his lesser performances, hitting comedic beats that land quite clumsily in a film that is otherwise extraordinarily elegant. Faring better is Humphrey Bogart, playing David’s older brother, Linus, carrying a magnificently commanding presence even if he doesn’t run away with the movie like Hepburn. Both are the sons of a wealthy family of whom Sabrina’s father serves as a chauffeur, and yet as they develop romantic interests in her, the clearly defined class boundaries dividing them are challenged in complex ways, giving rise to a web of intricate relationships that Wilder relishes in his staging and luscious deep focus cinematography. Of all the romantic set pieces we witness here, by far the greatest is the indoor tennis court upon which the figures of all three leads stand out prominently, whether they are isolated in the wide, open space or caught in a moment of tender affection.

From being the one who lurked in the shadows and watched lovers on the tennis court in the first scene…
To being on the court itself, and the centre of attention. Wonderful form in the progression of this imagery.

As much as we are drawn to Sabrina’s journey of independence, the callous duplicity of Linus also forms the basis of a compelling character who apparently lives to serve his family. In his efforts to ensure David doesn’t get distracted from a potential marriage that would be good for their business, he charms Sabrina with the intent to eventually send her off on a boat alone, and yet in the process of enacting this cruel plan, he incidentally falls for her. Like the hard, durable plastic he has obsessed over in his corporate ventures, it looks like no one is going to break him. And yet, ultimately, someone does.

“The man who doesn’t burn, doesn’t scorch, doesn’t melt suddenly throws a $20 million deal out the window.”

Essentially, Linus is a romantic pretending to be a practical businessman pretending to be a romantic. As he stands in a meeting room committing to the future of his company, Sabrina’s ship sails away in the background behind him, its whistle blowing like a final reminder of what he is losing. Before the rom-com trope of a man chasing down his lover in the airport, we had Bogart sailing after Hepburn on his boat, culminating in a romantic meeting of two movie stars that gorgeously ties off two parallel arcs – a man finding himself in love, and a woman finding herself beyond infatuation, realising that she has the entire world in her hands.

Bogart’s face warped in this shot through the plastic hammock – a cunning, duplicitous man.
The ships in the background and the office in the foreground – a painful dilemma for Linus in these final minutes.

Sabrina is available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.